Same Old Ground
by emberlivi
Summary: In Azkaban, those thoughts were easily cast aside for more treacherous and painful memories, but once he left, they were what remained—what he couldn't escape. Sirius Black needed to be loved and no woman would have him.


_I just want to say, don't ever change now, baby_

_And thank you, I don't think we will meet again_

—PJ Harvey

Sirius swept the thick black curtain of hair from his eyes and sniffed. The neighborhood was different than what he remembered. It was cleaner then and didn't smell of—he sneered—garbage. No, it was a nice, quiet middleclass neighborhood of bankers and dentists…a lot had changed in twenty years. His mother would have been horrified. He looked over his shoulder into the opened window framed by filthy, moth eaten olive curtains. Buckbeak happily gnawed upon half of a particularly fat brown rat.

"You'll never go hungry here," he murmured and looked back to the uninspiring sea of black, grey, and brown.

He rested his temple against the cool iron railing of the balcony. The sky was a murky grey and unremarkable—unlike Hogwarts…unlike those little Caribbean islands he spent that summer before Harry needed him. Sirius frowned. Did Harry still need him? _Pretty useless here_, he thought and rubbed the side of his unshaven face. _But Dumbledore has big plans for me…or so I've been told_. His eyes drifted to the faded red brick house to his right. She lived there—that blonde haired girl with her two brothers. A pretty Muggle girl he spotted on one of his escapes—on such an evening as this, when he needed to escape a domineering mother.

"I'm aware he's not James," Sirius muttered through clenched teeth.

He sighed and pulled his knees to his chest. _I thought I'd escaped all this_, he thought, staring blankly at the faded red brick. He was so bored. Surrounded by Muggles, he couldn't go outside for fear of contamination. He smiled faintly. Little did his parents know he would be contaminated upon this very roof! He didn't need to look up for he remembered his twelve-year-old body sprawled across the roof, wishing the stars he could barely see in London would look as they did at Hogwarts. It was there he saw her, through her window, sitting upon her bed, a magazine with frozen faces of teenage boys staring up at her. She was no more than sixteen. He never had the nerve to speak with her—maybe in a few years, he had hoped. He sighed once more. She never cared for him, anyway. He was just that odd little boy her brothers were friends with—the one that was clueless about football. _I could've delighted you with Quidditch, I can assure you_, he thought, resting his chin upon his hands.

He winced at the sound of an odd car horn going off—at least he thought it was a car horn. He didn't remember this neighborhood being as loud; however, places change, people change…the Order has changed. Snape? Sirius shook his head. He didn't care what the others thought, he knew Snape. He knew what Snape had done fifteen years ago. No amount of atonement or sacrifice would ever endear him to Sirius. _Just give me one good reason_, he thought, clenching his fists. _I don't care how useful you are_.

His eyes glanced to his clenched fists. He unclenched his right hand and held it up in front of him—when did his hand become so thin? When did he? He frowned. It didn't matter. Who did he have to look good for, anyway? There was no one in the Order, no one for him. During the last war, he was too busy to care, to develop anything lasting, anything he thought would last or had potential. It was lonely—not having anyone to come home to—but he wanted it that way. He didn't want to return to see the Dark Mark over his home and know what he would find inside. He didn't want to worry. He furrowed his eyebrows. Maybe he should've had someone to worry about. Maybe it would've kept him…he shook his head, but the loneliness crept into his chest. In Azkaban, those thoughts were easily cast aside for more treacherous and painful memories, but once he left, they were what remained—what he couldn't escape. Sirius Black needed to be loved and no woman would have him. He moodily scraped at the iron railing with his fingernail. It had been too long. He could almost feel the soft skin underneath his fingertips as his hands glided up the twisted metal. He could almost smell her hair, her perfume. He wrinkled his nose at his blackened thumbnail—maybe after the war…after he's cleared. He'd find someone…if anyone would have him.

A swish of blonde hair caught his eye. He leaned forward and smiled. Through the window of his unrequited crush was a very pretty woman, who looked to be about university age. She was incredibly bored with her delicate chin perched upon her hand. She sighed at the books and papers in front of her. She raised her hands above her head and arched her back—Sirius nodded faintly with approval. She returned to her books—her expression one of grim determination.

"Poor girl," he whispered as the young woman turned the page.

She needed some excitement, a laugh, like…Sirius frowned. The one that almost happened. The one James would joke would be the one to tie Padfoot down…eventually. Healer training was intense, he remembered. She always had a book with her—always revising—and he was always trying to get her to laugh and to relax. Lily's friend—a great girl with a great laugh with a look that lingered as if she was savoring the laugh. He liked that about her. He liked many things about her. They could just never get it together. He tried, or at least he thought he did. He escorted her home from St. Mungo's a few times. He looked in the direction of St. Mungo's and wondered if she was still a Healer there. _Probably married, kids, the whole lot_, he thought, feeling pangs of guilt and jealousy. He shifted in an attempt suppress the uncomfortable memory of their last conversation, but it was no use. They were both twenty—God, so incredibly young! It had rained all day, the sky looked very much the same—that murky grey—and he escorted her home from St. Mungo's. They were both chilled and she invited him in for something warm to drink and to warm up. He was aching for her, and he knew she wanted him just as much, but she asked him where she stood with him. He had laughed it off, but she was very upset. Instead of comforting her, he shrugged and said nothing. She never asked him to escort her home again, and he saw her once or twice after that—it was always too awkward and he had to push that awkwardness away. He was too stubborn to tell her that he made a mistake.

"She's better off anyway," he said.

The woman closed a book and Sirius peered at the cover with colorful squiggles upon it—_Concepts in Modern Molecular Genetics_. He raised an eyebrow. What was that? She lightly scratched the tip of her nose and Sirius did not think that faint frown suited her. She was too pretty to be bored. She needed excitement. He straightened. A lovable stray could keep her company. He smiled. He'll do it. He'll be a pitiful whining stray that she'd have to take in—those sorts of girls do that thing. He felt a jolt of something in his stomach that he hadn't felt in a while: a purpose, a usefulness, a feeling of being needed. At least someone would need him….

* * *

Sirius groaned and rested the back of his head against the cool roof tile. He was an idiot. How could he not be? Emmeline had brought her to the meeting. He growled lowly as he stared up at the darkened cloudy late evening sky. He was so—he winced—awkward. He hadn't—he hadn't shaved or bothered that day. He looked so awful…probably smelled awful, like Firewhiskey. Molly might've muttered a comparison to Mundungus under her breath. He would've liked—he sighed—time to prepare, but no one gave him that courtesy. It was his house—despite his loathing of it.

"No one respects me," he murmured. "Not when I live with a portrait of my mother."

He closed his eyes. She was beautiful and unchanged. He could almost feel her creamy white skin under his fingertips, her long legs wrapped around his waist, his face buried in her thick auburn hair. He sighed longingly. She sat at the long kitchen table with her black handbag in her lap. He caught his breath when he saw her—how could he not? He attempted to leave without her noticing, but Tonks had blown it. He had to stay and it was torture. God, those grey eyes when she looked at him! She faintly smiled and he thought she pulled her handbag tighter to her…afraid of him. And he just stood there like an idiot—his mouth open and staring at her. He must've been a sight.

Sirius had never been the best with women. He was good-looking, and he knew it, and it held obvious certain advantages and ease. A girl was receptive to a handsome face. He just—his family. Despite running away from it, he could never truly run away—a girl was hopeful for a wealthy boyfriend, but would get a pauper and a decision to spend the lot of his inheritance from his uncle upon a motorbike. He swallowed as he opened his eyes. He couldn't speak to her—he attempted to speak—but his mouth went dry and he must've sounded like an idiot with jumbled words and stuttering. When did he ever stutter? He made a noise of disgust. He knew she forced herself to be nice to him. He felt her pity and her gratefulness at not attaching herself to him. How could he not? All the women in the Order, even Tonks at times, stayed away from him…refrained from being near him at meetings…alone with him. He was a bloody pariah.

He sat up, resting his forearms upon his knees. He felt twelve. He went quiet and just stared at her—she caught him doing it once or twice. He didn't have—he swallowed once more—the courage to tell her goodbye. A flickering white screen below caught his eye. The young woman with the blonde hair sat in front of a box with a flickering white screen, her fingers pressed on buttons—at least they looked like buttons—and words appeared upon the screen. He leaned forward. He knew what that was for Harry had mentioned it.

"Co—_co_?" he murmured, raising an eyebrow. "Coputer? No, _com_puter." He wrinkled his nose. "Odd."

The young woman stopped typing and pushed her chair from the desk. She looked exceedingly tired as she stepped before her window. She rested her head against the window frame and clutched the purple shawl tighter around her. His lips parted as her face scanned the skyline—she looked right at him. He straightened, smoothing his long black hair. Did he look all right? He let out a small noise of frustration at the magic that protected him. _Magic, you idiot_. The young woman frowned and turned away.

* * *

Eulalia had arrived early to Grimmauld Place. Sirius was alone in the kitchen, drinking his coffee when he heard her footsteps. Her footsteps were too delicate to be Remus and too graceful to be Tonks. Effortless. He used to be effortless…at least he liked to believe so. She appeared to be surprised, nervous, when she realized it would be the two for quite some time. Sirius pulled at a loose roof tile; black crumbs tumbled down the dirtied slope. He could barely speak and she hardly spoke. His voice, unnatural and hoarse, croaked an offer of coffee. She quietly nodded her response. It was agonizingly awkward—that silence—the sniffs, the clearing of the throat, the occasional intrusion of that accursed house-elf who muttered a slur against her at which Sirius ordered him from the kitchen. The sickness had returned to his stomach at the thought of ordering Kreacher. He was becoming like his father. He grunted as he loosened the roof tile. She could have scolded him, but she didn't. Instead, she thanked him. He felt a small surge of…something. He looked at the black soot upon his fingertips. He hasn't the nerve to ask her if she were married. Did he want to know? _A woman like that_, he thought, rubbing the grit between his thumb and forefinger, _she has to be_. As if she'd go for him, anyway. He lived in his hateful childhood home with a portrait of his deranged dead mother and an equally deranged house-elf. Where would he take her on a Saturday night? The drawing room? His boyhood bedroom? He was pathetic.

Sirius's eyes drifted to the window of the young woman. He frowned. _Poor girl_, he thought he faintly cocked his head to the side. _She shouldn't revise so much_. She was asleep at her desk with her head rested upon a pile of papers with strange drawings. _It's a Saturday night_. Sirius pointed his wand at the blanket upon her bed and gently floated it across her room so it lay across her shoulders. She pulled it snuggly around her with a grateful smile. Sirius smiled as well. He was needed—she needed him. He had to—it was a dangerous time, especially for a Muggle…a beautiful woman such as her. Would she enjoy a big black dog?

* * *

Sirius pulled the grey cloak tighter around him. The young woman—Delia, he learned—was curled upon her bed with blanket he placed over her and a warmed cup of tea upon her nightstand—her open books and papers scattered around her. It was almost ten o'clock and she would be asleep until morning. He wouldn't wait to see her grateful smile or the chance look out her window in his direction. At least someone was grateful for him. At least someone needed him. Harry didn't need him…said that it was too dangerous for him to visit Hogsmeade. He laughed bitterly. _I spent two years there undetected_. Still, he would listen to Harry. He wouldn't want that boy leaving Hogwarts to visit him, not when that bitch Umbridge was round. Disgusting how a woman would love order and bureaucracy more than any man…well, except her precious incapable Fudge. The beautiful Delia shifted upon the bed, curling her blanket tighter around her. How at that moment he imagined it was his arm that slipped tighter around her waist…her back pressed against his chest. He inhaled the cold night air and sighed—his warm breath materializing before him. He hasn't the nerve to approach her as Snuffles…not yet, at least. _I don't want to mess this up too_.

Sirius had a feeling that she would be at the Order meeting that night. He felt a pleasurable anxiousness in his belly—a feeling he hadn't felt since he was nineteen and waited outside her parents' home upon his motorbike. He was ready. He had spent some time in the bath preparing himself for her…much to Remus's perplexed amusement. Was it truly that noticeable? Had Snape become more desirable than him? Sirius stuck out his tongue. Regular bathing, combed hair, cologne, less alcohol. He caught sight of himself in the silver as she entered—he looked as best he could…as best as Azkaban would let him. Statuesque, in fine indigo robes, she tiredly greeted the other members. He stood, mute, when his mind screamed to offer her a coffee or a comfortable chair. He growled lowly—did she realize she had such an effect upon him? He was a grown man and could not utter two words to her. Much to his delight and fright, she stayed after the meeting for dinner. Molly had insisted upon it; a hard day at St. Mungo's after all. He rested his chin against his knees. One of the few decent meals, warm meals, he's had in ages. He never had the talent for cooking. He sat across from her and ate in silence. His eyes were trained upon his plate of stew for he didn't dare look up at her—at her breasts before him. Molly Weasley broke the silence between them. He narrowed his eyes at Molly's intrusion into her life. He felt her embarrassment when Molly clicked her teeth when she revealed she was unmarried and childless; however, Sirius's embarrassment stemmed from the small upsurge of hope that he had a chance. He remembered the faint pink of her cheeks and the usually steady hand that held her fork, trembling. He should have come to her defense and stopped Molly's intrusion, but it was Remus. He could only drop his fork as Remus steered the conversation toward pudding.

"You had your chance," he whispered and sighed.

_Fifteen years ago_. Too busy, too thoughtless, too afraid of settling down. Now, that time has passed him.

"And you reek of hippogriff."

* * *

Thick droplets of rain fell like sheets against the windows of his mother's bedroom. The repetitive sound lulled Sirius into a pensive stupor as he sat with one leg upon the windowsill. With the side of his forehead against the damp window, Sirius stared through the streaming droplets and out into the murky grey. As the others dispersed from the meeting (and not without Snape reminding him of Sirius's bravery in such a perilous position as his) she remained. She sat at the long kitchen table, her grey eyes looking ahead of her and her expression sadly meditative. Without looking at him, she asked if she could stay. He immediately felt that pleasurable eagerness in his belly. He felt the warmth radiate from the pit of his stomach, washing his insides, and he prayed his face remained that perfect shade of Azkaban sallow. He was barely able to utter a, 'yes,' but it did not matter—she would not have moved. It was the fourth time she had stayed after the meeting. How he wanted to kiss that pouty lip as she gently bit it—the sadness encroaching upon her face. Sirius's fingertip traced the course of a raindrop. What was he to do? She sat there before him, small tears streaming down her cheeks.

"Well done, Black," he murmured as Buckbeak lifted his wings.

He offered her a cup of tea. Stroking the cup with her thumb, and without looking up, she apologized. '_I'm so sorry, Sirius_,' he remembered and felt his heart skip once more. More tears collected upon her thick black lashes. He did what any reasonable, thoughtful man would do—he offered her the handkerchief from his pocket. It was clean, wasn't it? He closed his eyes and remembered the sweetness of her apology—who would further apologize for crying? He had forgotten she would do that. He would laugh, it would coax her to laugh, and he would gently lift her face to meet his. However, he could not do that now. He mustered that it was all right and began to say that even Remus, but she would not listen. In a tremulous voice, she apologized for believing he was capable of such awful things. He sat in quiet; his mind confused with words and his mouth dry—although he had just taken a sip of tea. She whispered, 'Lily,' and he did something that surprised him—a simple act he had not done in fifteen years. He reached for her hand and she did not pull back. He squeezed it. She squeezed back. Sirius opened his eyes to suppress his memory, but he could not. It was a jerk reaction. It was an overwhelming feeling. Her hand, it felt so soft and small and wonderful in his. He leaned forward, and when she realized, she pushed him away. She seemed just as flustered and embarrassed as she stumbled over her chair and she hurriedly left the kitchen.

He lifted his head and wrinkled his nose at the crack in the dingy ceiling. "Bloody brilliant," he muttered.

Mortified, Sirius must have sat for an hour at the kitchen table. He only left when the loneliness of the kitchen, of the inside got to him, and it's getting to him more.

Delia was at her desk. She let out a great yawn, arching her back, and returned to her thick book before her. Sirius shook his head. _Put down those books and live_, he thought as she highlighted a sentence. He had wasted his life being too busy. He thought he had time, but an exploded street and twelve years in Azkaban proved him wrong. Despite his mates, he was alone. Always alone at night. Sirius wrinkled his nose—a sick feeling in the pit of his throat—as a male figure, about the age of Delia, slipped his arms around her shoulders. He kissed the top of her head and she smiled, pulling him closer. Sirius quietly groaned.

* * *

Sirius rested his hands behind his head as he reclined upon the roof. It was exceptionally warm for an early spring night. He squinted as he looked before him at the night sky—pity he couldn't see the stars. He remembered why he hated the city…well, most of it. His lips upturned into a small smile. St. Mungo's. He was unsure of how it happened. The others continued to avoid him and he understood—how does one interact with a man who spent almost entire adulthood incarcerated with dementors…a supposed murderer? All spoke through Remus, but she didn't. He appreciated that. She didn't fear him. On the contrary—his grin widened—she seemed to search him out.

After the incident in the kitchen, she had missed the next two meetings and Sirius was convinced she would not return, but at the third meeting, she did return…and she stayed. She would continue to stay after the meetings ended, but mostly to catch up with old friends and to give Remus updates on the newly turned werewolves in Creature-Induced Injuries. They were cleaning up (as Kreacher was, of course, useless) and Sirius had insisted for her not to do so, but she wouldn't listen. As she handed him the cleaned silver to place in the cupboard, Sirius had referenced the late night food raids to the Hogwarts kitchens. With ease, she laughed, she too remembered a particularly mortifying experience their sixth years when the boys caught the girls upon their return. Sirius didn't dare tell her that it was planned—that he and James had spotted the girls out after hours upon the map as Sirius and James returned from a raid of Honeydukes. The two laughed as Sirius reenacted stuffing Mrs. Norris in the suit of armor to escape Filch. His stomach tightened with pleasure as he remembered the look up on her face as they quieted. His heart skipped as she savored the laugh and his heart skipped once more as he thought of it. He spotted a pair of witches flying overhead, oblivious to him below. He sighed contentedly. Everything was finally going right for him. She teased him about their naughtiness, but Sirius reminded her that they weren't completely naughty—James did marry Lily…but he didn't continue. He felt his cheeks pink. He was a grown man for God's sake. Her smile had faded—her look thoughtful—and she said quietly, as she placed a porcelain plate in the cupboard, that they were too young and too different. Sirius closed his eyes and visualized her mischievously coy smile as she added, '_but we did have fun, though_.' Desire licked at his insides for he knew what that smile meant—what she wanted from him. '_It's very unfair what happened you, Sirius_,' he remembered as she stepped closer to him—he could still smell her perfume, '_you're a good man_.' He caught his breath as he felt her soft lips against his cheek. She pulled away and looked to her watch; she had to leave, early morning at St. Mungo's.

He raised his hand to his cheek and smiled to himself. "It's a start."

* * *

**AN:** Thank you so much for reading! Please, do not hesitate to leave a comment or review. Yes, this is somewhat a departure from my other stories. I hope it was as enjoyable.

I just want to say, don't ever change now, baby/And thank you, I don't think we will meet again-'This Mess We're In'-PJ Harvey


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